Invisible

My daughter didn't want me aboard the party bus.  The one rented for her sixteenth birthday party.  We had other chaperons so it shouldn't have bothered me.

But it did.

"Are you sure you don't want me on?" I asked her.

"Yes I'm sure, Mom!"

I stood outside the group of boisterous teenagers congregated at the corner ready for loading.  My daughter was laughing and chattering in the midst of them.  And there I stood, the onlooker.  No thought given to the eight hours of labor; no one wanting to hear that story.

I felt invisible.

They arrived back home as loudly as they'd left. When it came time for cake, she lit the candles without waiting for me.  In that moment, I realized what was bothering me.  She didn't need me anymore.  She had planned, decorated, invited and even baked her own cake. Without me.  And the more I thought about it, it became clear that it wasn't just about the party or feeling invisible--I was losing her.  The little girl who wanted me to play dolls, snuggle and fix her hair, didn't need me now.  It was the beginning of the end.

A week later, she and I were chatting with one of her friends.  My daughter shared something deeply personal.  Her friend nudged her, signaling her to shut up.

"Oh my Mom knows," my daughter said, "we have that kind of relationship."

And like the Grinch, my heart grew two sizes that day and melted into a giant puddle of happiness.  Maybe she doesn't need me to fix her cake or choose her clothes anymore; but we have that kind of relationship. One that, I hope, wraps her in unconditional love.

And in the length of one sentence, I felt visible again.